


Coming Out

by LiviKate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Arguing, Bisexual John, But not at first, Coming Out, Drunk John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Reconciliation, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, John is really sad, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining John, Poor John, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Teen Angst, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiviKate/pseuds/LiviKate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has had feelings for his best friend for a very long time. Feelings he knows will never be returned. When John goes out to drown his sorrows in booze and girls, he finds himself falling into bed with a man for the first time instead. John doesn't expect Sherlock to think much of it, as he had never cared either way about people's sexualities. But when Sherlock finds out, things go downhill quickly, leaving John confused and alone. Can the two friends come back together after such an explosive coming out? If they do, will it be like before? Or might it be so very, very different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I'm terrible at summaries. And tagging. But don't worry, I'm pretty good at angsty teenlock!
> 
> If you like it, I'd love to hear from you :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy,  
> LK

Leaning against the wall of a stranger’s house, John Watson was struck by how much he really didn’t want to be there.

It didn't help that a very, very drunk Sally Donovan was attempting to crawl up his body, her breath smelling heavily of beer as it stuck to his face.

“You sure you don’t wanna go up’sairs?” She slurred for the fifth time, one hand insinuating itself under his rugby shirt.

“Absolutely,” he replied dryly, batting her hand away and keeping her from face planting against the wall when he twisted away from her. “Let’s see if we can’t find someone to take you home, hmm?” he asked politely, even if she wouldn’t even remember the conversation in the morning.

“Thaz wha’ I’ve been askin’ you,” she giggled into his neck. He suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with her charm and everything to do with her smell.

“Molly!” He cried, spotting a familiar, lost looking face in the crowd. “Please tell me you’re looking for her.” John didn’t make a habit of begging, but right now, he’d make an exception.

“Yes,” Molly said with a sigh of relief. “She called Michael to come take her home. Seems as though Phillip is back with his girlfriend again.”

John gave her an appropriately sympathetic look, but he was mostly busy trying to keep his pants buttoned at Sally insisted again that she really wasn’t that drunk.

“Sally, stop,” he told her sternly, catching her wrists in his hands. “Knock it off. You’re going to feel like a right idiot tomorrow morning.”

She didn’t take that well, her pretty face, softened by alcohol, morphed back into it’s semi-permanent scowl.

“Whaz wrong with you, then?” She said accusingly, swaying violently to the side as she stood under her own power.

“You’re drunk, Sally,” John said reasonably. “You already ruined their date, why don’t you let Molly and Dimmock drive you home and not waste any more of their time.”

“You couldn’t handle me,” she exclaimed dramatically, gesturing to herself, and nearly toppling over. “I’m too much woman for you.”

“Yeah, it’s time to go home, Sally. Michael’s outside with the car, c’mon now, I’ve got you.”

Sally continued to shout with increasing volume as Molly grabbed her by the arm and waist and began walking her slowly to the door. “That’s a stupid shirt, John! I do’t even care if you look really nice in it. It’s stupid. Stupid blue. Fucking shirt. You don’t know what you’re missing!”

John rolled his eyes. _‘Molls got her nearly to the door, just hold you cool, she’s not even making sense anymore.’_

“Fuckin’ cockzucker. You wouldn’t know wha’ ta do wit’ a girl. Faggot! _”_ was the last slurred insult before a beet-red Molly succeeded in yanking Sally through the front door, much to their fellow partygoer’s amusement.

John, however, wasn’t smiling. That last bit hit home with him, reminding him exactly how he’d ended up at this party in the first place.

He’d ridden home from school with Sherlock today. His class was required to watch West Side Story, and John knew Sherlock wouldn’t do it if he didn’t make him. And by ‘make,’ he meant entertain him enough throughout it so they might actually make it to the end before Sherlock stormed out in a fit of “This world is full of idiots,” and “There should be more plagues.”

Flopping down on the overly plush couch in the private media room, John settled in for a promising showing. This was the end of one of Sherlock’s bingers; he’d been awake for nearly three days straight and due for a crash. On the car ride home, the drive nice and smooth in the swanky towncar sent for them, Sherlock had nearly nodded off against John’s shoulder. John had had to force himself to ignore how sweetly his friend’s hair smelled.

Sherlock flicked on the TV and tossed the remote carelessly at John, leaving him to do the rest as the lanky teen collapsed lengthwise on the couch, dropping his head unceremoniously into John’s lap.

“Well hello,” John said with an easy smile, accustomed to the probably strange level of intimacy he and his friend had established over the years. It did not pass John by, no matter how unobservant he was proclaimed to be, that Sherlock didn’t ever get touched or held at home. Or anywhere really.

Except by John.

It hadn’t seemed all that odd when it had started when they were eight, stuck together as lab partners for what Sherlock had called an “idiotic perversion of science.” John had had to ask him what it meant, but nonetheless the two boys had struck up a surprisingly fierce friendship. Now, eight years later, the two boys were nearly joined at the hip.

Or, _near_ the hip, as some of their peers liked to joke. However, as much as the rumors were not true, John had to admit, the two friends were likely much closer than any other two “just mates” had any right to be. “Just mates” didn’t lounge across their mate’s laps. “Just mates” didn’t demand to have their hair stroked on the grounds that “it was too tangled to allow for clear thought lines.” “Just mates” don’t spend every day after school together. “Just mates” don’t go to all of each other’s rugby matches or debate competitions. “Just mates” don’t share coats and scarves when one of them gets cold. “Just mates” don’t insist on checking the other one over when he caused too bad an explosion or had too good a fight. “Just mates” don’t badger each other to eat and sleep and _“for the love of God, John, just think!”_

And most of all, “just mates” do not have continual, haunting, lustful thoughts of each other.

Well, not _each other_. John was one hundred percent sure it was just him. In fact, Sherlock had made that very clear throughout their relationship.

Sherlock Holmes did not date. Nor did he ever seem to look, or even think along that avenue.

John, however, couldn’t help himself. Especially when the object of his affection and undying love continually tossed himself into his lap, to be petted and stroked and adored.

Sherlock soaked up the praise and the caresses like a needy cat, even going as far as batting at John’s hands if they were too stop their ministrations for too long. He said it helped with his thinking. John wasn’t sure if he believed that, but he was absolutely positive that Sherlock did not get out of it the same sort of fantasies that John did.

And now, with Sherlock relaxed against him with his head on his thighs and John’s hand in his hair, John couldn’t help but sigh at the unfairness of it. Here he had this beautiful little demon in his lap, free to touch and trusting explicitly.

That was the worst part. If it was one of his bad days, Sherlock would lay in bed, face buried in John’s stomach, bemoaning the world and the unfair justness of it. He trusted John to cuddle him when he was stroppy and trace the knobby ridges of his spine when he was stressing. The fact that John found himself wondering exactly what his milky skin would feel like, or how he would look on his knees and begging, made it all feel like a betrayal.

Sherlock trusted John and John spent hours a day imagining so much more.

Like today. Draped over the couch, head heavy against John’s legs, Sherlock puffed tiny, sleepy breaths against the denim of his jeans. The musical began and John quickly decided that this would not be something he enjoyed. He might have fantasies about his very male best friend (and yes, a fair amount of other males too,) but he was still not gay enough for this. Turning his attention instead to the ebony head in his lap, John gently traced his full name into Sherlock’s scalp.

“You’re supposed be untangling my hair,” Sherlock mumbled. John could feel his lips moving against his leg. It was so much like a kiss, John’s heart hurt. “Your “a” and “o”s only make it worse.”

“Good thing I’ve got all the other letters to help smooth it out,” John said, tugging lightly on a curl to make his point. His genius only hummed, the vibrations buzzing John’s thigh and making him shiver.

He couldn’t really help his train of thought from there. He knew exactly what shape Sherlock’s mouth was making as he scowled disapprovingly at the dancing and singing on the screen. He imagined how it would feel to trace that pout with a fingertip, sliding lightly over its edges until it softened and those rosy lips parted for him. John imagined turning his head by the hand in his hair and bending down to kiss him. Sherlock’s eyes would drift closed and for the first time his brain would be silent as he let John in. He could already feel the smoothness of Sherlock’s tongue as he licked into his mouth. He imagined he knew what the inside of the brunet’s mouth felt like, having spent hours upon blissful hours mapping it out. Sherlock would whimper against him, clutching desperately at his shoulders—

“John?” Sherlock’s voice drug John out of his reverie like a bucket of cold water to the face. He jumped, startled, and Sherlock yelped. Looking down, John found that his hand had knotted itself roughly in Sherlock’s hair, pulling unpleasantly against the slippery strands.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” John said, releasing his grip and taking care to smooth down the ruffled curls. “I was somewhere else,” he offered lamely, gesturing up at his head.

Sherlock rolled onto his back and looked up at him with _that look._

“Where, exactly?” Sherlock baited. Normally John would’ve risen to the challenge, but right now he could tell his eyes were dilated and his cheeks were flushed and his breathing and heart rate were both elevated, and if he knew Sherlock Holmes at all, he’d be able to tell.

“Nothing, nowhere, it’s not important,” John said hurriedly, standing up abruptly and causing Sherlock to scramble into a sitting position or risk being dumped onto the floor.

He had that deducing face on; that thing he’d started doing when they were just boys and Sherlock could tell him anything and everything about himself, his teachers and his classmates. And right now that gaze was narrowed on him and even in the dimly lit room, John knew he was giving away too much.

“Sorry, ‘Lock, I’ve got to go. We can finish the movie later.” John was halfway down the hall before Sherlock could even call after him. When the other boy did, he didn’t stop. He raced through the heavy, dark oak door and jogged most of the way home.

Checking his mobile, John saw he had a text inviting him to a house party. The kind of party Sherlock would sneer at. As John found himself imagining the exact curl of Sherlock’s lush lips, he decided that a night out was exactly what he needed. Sherlock was too close to the surface in his head, he was bursting with want for the boy. Yeah, he needed a good binge night. Nothing solved problems like large amounts of drinking; it was the Watson’s way.

Three beers in though, with Watson tolerance, John felt only slightly buzzed and entirely exhausted.

He didn't want to be here, standing in a stranger’s house, a warm beer in his hand, fending off drunken girls. If he was honest with himself, he would absolutely rather be watching West Side Fucking Story with Sherlock napping in his lap.

 _‘Faggot!’_ Sally’s voice echoed in his head.

He closed his eyes and downed the rest of his beer. Maybe it was time for something harder.

Making his way to the kitchen, John snagged a bottle off the table. He wondered just how much trouble this poor kid would get in for letting his friends, and half the school into his parents’ good stuff, but John wasn’t complaining as he took a hard pull of damn good Jack.

Three swallows and he came up for air, feeling the pleasant rush of alcohol through his system. Dropping the bottle back down to the counter he was leaning against, John watched with low-lidded and appreciative eyes as a tall blond made his way over to him. John recognized him as a rugby player from another school that he’d faced off with a couple times before. He was good. Fit.

“Hey,” he said, coming to a stop a couple feet in front of John. _‘Christ, he’s tall,’_ John thought, titling his head back a little to look up at him.

“Hey,” John answered back, his gaze lingering on the boy’s red lips.

“My name’s Caleb,” the guy said, and John decided he liked his voice. It was soft sounding. Not too deep, or harsh. It was pleasant.

“John,” he said, holding out the Jack by way of introduction. Caleb took it with a smile, taking a swig. John watched his throat move as he swallowed it down. He handed it back and the shorter boy took another drink himself.

“So, was it true what she said?” Caleb asked.

John’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“That you like sucking cock?” he elaborated

John blinked at him, taken aback.

“What?” he asked, not sure whether he should be getting angry or not.

“It’s okay if you do,” Caleb said, shuffling another step closer. “I do.”

John stared at him blankly, shock stealing his expression. He took another drink, eyes on the ceiling as he attempted to collect enough usable brain cells to generate a response.

Caleb quirked a brow at his silence.

“I don’t know,” John said honestly, grip tight on the neck of the bottle.

“You like blokes, though, yeah?” The taller boy asked, taking another step in so that John could smell the beer and cologne on him.

“I don’t know,” John answered again dumbly, leaning back so he could take another pull from the bottle. Caleb grabbed his hands, carefully taking the bottle from his death grip.

“That’s okay,” he said with his pleasant voice. “I can help you decide.”

His eyes were dark, probably brown, maybe hazel. John didn't overly care. His head was buzzing and his skin was starting to feel hot and he was having trouble looking anywhere but this stranger’s mouth. It curled a little like Sherlock’s did.

He nodded, slowly, before he even knew he was doing it.

That red mouth pulled into a grin and hot fingers wrapped around John’s wrist, pulling him down a hallway, and the next thing he knew he was in a darken bedroom room that smelled considerably better than the rest of the house and Caleb was closing the door behind them. The shellshock was wearing off and when Caleb turned back to him, John really took him in.

He was rather gorgeous, in that average, classically handsome way. His features were strong, not too sharp and not too soft, his hair was thick and artfully spiked at the front. His shirt was snug and John wanted to know whether his skin was soft or hairy. He found he didn't think he’d mind one over the other.

Looking back up to his face, John found Caleb was now very close to him. Tipping his head back, John glanced at his mouth.

“Can I kiss you?” Caleb asked, and his breath over John’s lips felt like a touch already. John nodded, already reaching up with one hand to pull his mouth against his.

John kissed him hungrily, aggressively, pulling the taller boy down to him and taking control of the kiss. Caleb let out a gasp of surprise and John took the opportunity, slipping his searching tongue into Caleb’s whiskey flavoured mouth. The taller boy moaned appreciatively, hands on John hips and walking him back against the wall. Caleb pressed forward, pinning John with his broad, flat chest. John’s hands scraped desperately over the hard planes of muscle, finding he was not at all missing the supple flesh of breasts. Even if the thought might’ve crossed his mind that his partner’s chest was a little too broad, a little too tan, John focused on other things. Like the forceful tongue in his mouth, the callused and large hands on his biceps and the scratch of just-coming-in facial hair on his cheeks. _‘This is just as good, God, this might be better,’_ John thought when a thigh was pushed between his and ground against his groin.

John moaned, his head falling back against the wall, as his partner descended on his neck, biting and laving and sucking at the torqued flesh there. John’s fingers knotted roughly in his hair, just like he had with Sherlock’s, but this time, the boy the hair belonged to shivered and bit down hard when John pulled, whimpered as John’s lips came back down around his.

“Goddamn, you’re a good kisser,” Caleb gasped into his mouth. John merely hummed, wrapping his hands around the boy’s hips and dragging them closer. Caleb worked his hands under John’s shirt, pulling it up under his arms. “Off.” John complied and not seconds after the shirt cleared his head was Caleb ducking his head to mouth at John’s nipples.

John started in surprise and would’ve jerked back had it not been for a wall behind him. Caleb looked up at him quizzically before pulling back slightly.

“Girls don’t normally pay attention to these, do they?” he asked, rubbing light circles over John’s nipples. The sensation was strange. Good, but strange.

“No, they really don’t,” John confirmed.

“Well, you’ve been missing out.” With a wicked grin Caleb was back to flicking his tongue hotly over John’s nipple, rolling the other between his fingers. John shivered at the strange sensation, having never really paid that erogenous zone much attention himself before. He was busy trying to decide whether he liked to or not when Caleb scraped his teeth across the bud and it shot directly to John’s groin.

“Fuck,” he growled, fisting Caleb’s hair again, rolling his hips against the taller boys’. Caleb chuckled before switching to the other, going immediately for flicks of tongue and gentle bites.

“Good?” he asked, nuzzling against John’s strong, chest.

“Fuck,” John sighed in answer, dragging the other boy’s head up to kiss him again. Caleb kissed him back hard before pulling away again.

“Better than a girl?” he asked impishly.

“So far so good,” John agreed with an easy smile. And it was easy. Despite everything he’d thought, being here, wrapped around another man, kissing and touching, John didn’t feel at all weird or strange.

This person was a man and he was beautiful and John wanted to put his mouth all over him. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

If, whenever John closed his eyes he imagined it was Sherlock grinding down against him, well he wasn’t going to tell Caleb that.

“Don’t worry, it gets better,” the rugby player said, before dropping to his knees before John. John breathed out a curse and a groan, a hand unconsciously rising to thick, straight blond hair. Caleb took his time, leaving no less than four hickeys randomly dotting down John’s torso. One particularly good one was left within a ring of teethmarks as the boy gripped and tugged on John’s hipbone, nuzzling and sucking along the v-line the led down to his prick. Finally taking pity on his squirming and panting captive, Caleb tugged his flies open and expertly pulled out his hard and heavy cock. He licked his lips, grinned appreciatively up at John as he stroked his length. “You’re big,” he said with a grin, eyes shining mischievously. John merely shrugged, blushing slightly. “Girls ever complain?’ Caleb asked.

“Sometimes,” John admitted, carding his fingers through his partner’s hair.

“Well, let’s see how well I fair,” Caleb quipped before descending on John’s cock with a fury.

John’s head _thunked_ back against the wall hard enough to see stars, but that might’ve been from the way Caleb’s was sucking him like he’d been born to do it. John closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, awash in the wave of sensation crashing over him. He was good, taking him in farther than anyone had before. John could feel the valve of his throat closing around the head, and he had to force himself not to buck deeper. His tongue was clever, flicking along the frenulum before tracing thick veins as he took him in again.

“Christ,” John whimpered when the boy sucked hard around the tip, wet tongue in constant motion before taking him down, his head bobbing in a merciless rhythm.

Eyes shut tightly, it was easy to imagine it was Sherlock on his knees for him. In his head, John saw Sherlock’s dark, curly head bobbing along his length. John threaded both hands through loose curls and with a permissive hum from cupid’s bow lips, John slowly began rocking his hips into his best friend’s mouth. He heard Sherlock’s low, rumbling hum as he encouraged him deeper, could imagine how his green-grey eyes would be glowing up at him. _‘Oh, fuck, Sherlock, please,’_ he thought. Long, violinist finger’s braced securely around his hips and John rode that edge, closer and closer, chasing his orgasm down that talented throat.

“Close,” John panted, his fantasy collapsing as he opened his blown-black eyes to look at the blond athlete before him.

Caleb pulled off, continuing to stroke john with one hand and massaging his bollocks with the other, all the while looking up at him with swollen lips as hazel eyes.

Hazel. His eyes were hazel. And with the streetlights shining in from the window, they almost looked green. And with green eyes and cock-swollen lips, and John just on the brink, he looked just like Sherlock.

John came with a gasp, the orgasm ripping through him, painting his stomach and his partner’s hands. He didn't shout Sherlock’s name, but it was a close thing.

There was Caleb, on his knees and looking beautiful, staring up at him with wide, dark eyes, looking, again, nothing like the boy he wished it was.

He leaned in and licked through a splatter of come, smearing it with his tongue over John’s abdomen. And, god, if that wasn’t a gorgeous thing to watch. _‘If only it wasn’t him,’_ John found himself thinking again, taking the last of his orgasmic aftershocks and making them feel somewhat less.

“Good?” Caleb asked, looking immensely proud of himself.

“Very,” John said, tucking away the part of himself that wanted very much to be with a boy who would never want him back. Caleb didn't need that kind of baggage.

And if John was honest with himself, pining or not, that was one of the most glorious sexual encounters he had ever had. And Caleb must be aching.

“Better than a girl?” he asked again, seemingly very invested in turning John gay.

“Best I’ve ever had,” John answered honestly. It had been fucking perfect. The only thing that could’ve made it better was Sherlock. John pushed that thought to the back of his head. This wasn’t supposed to be about Sherlock, that’s why he came here in the first place. This was about John. And right now, John wanted to be pretty gay.

“Teach me how to do that?” John asked with a grin, running his fingers through Caleb’s hair one more time.

“Fuck, yes, please,” Caleb groaned, leaning forward to rest his forehead against John’s groin for a moment, squeezing his cock through his jeans. John reached a hand down to him and pulled him to his feet. Taking the initiative, John pushed Caleb back towards the bed, hoping to God this was a guest room and not somebody’s grandparents’.

Caleb laid himself out on the bed while John wiped himself up with tissues from the bedstand and tucked himself back into his jeans. When he turned back to the man he was about to suck off, the taller boy had shucked his jeans completely and laid back on the bed, legs spread wantonly, one hand lazily stroking his cock, the other reaching down between his cheeks of stroke slow circles around his hole.

“Bloody hell,” John sighed, struck by how extremely, extremely arousing of a picture that made. “You’re absolutely gorgeous,” he said before he could think to be embarrassed.

“You’re not half bad yourself,” he said cheekily. “I guess it’d be safe to say that, yes, you do like blokes, yeah?” Caleb asked with a grin, looking mighty proud.

“Well I sure like this,” John said with a grin, crawling in between his partner’s legs and running his hands up along his inner thighs, gently pressing out. Curly brown hair sparsely covered the pale skin there, and John couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock would have hair here too. Frowning at himself, John shook the idea from his head, vowing not to think of Sherlock again.

John needed to separate himself from his friend. He couldn’t think of Sherlock all the time. It was easy enough to push him to the back of his mind when John was chin deep with a woman, but with a man it was proving much more difficult. But goddamn did John want this. He wanted to be able to sleep with a man and not spend the whole time thinking of the man he loved. Maybe that was backwards, but John didn't see another option. The best he could do would be to have sex with beautiful men like Caleb and hold on to Sherlock as his best friend. Losing Sherlock would be losing everything.

“You okay down there?” Caleb asked, pulling John from his thoughts. Coming back to himself, John saw that Caleb’s hands had stopped and he had pushed himself up onto his elbows to grin down at John. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, but you seemed pretty sure about the gay thing a little bit ago.”

“No, I’m pretty damn sure,” John said with a grin, leaning in to nip at Caleb’s inner thigh. The taller boy laughed, twitching away slightly. John marveled at how light hearted this was. He wondered if this would be how it always was semi-anonymous men. He didn't think so, but he appreciated having his first experience like this. Even if he spent the whole time thinking about someone else…

“Well, if you're sure,” Caleb said with a suggestive nudge towards John. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here comes the angst

John met the morning with a pounding headache, a sore jaw and a Sherlock storming through his room.

“Wake up, John,” he called, flinging the door open so that it banged against the opposite wall. John groaned, burrowing deeper into his pillow, shoulders hunching as the boy genius threw open his curtains. “Up, John, up!” Sherlock cried, tugging on the blanket John had pulled firmly over his head. “You promised you’d go soil sampling with me today,” Sherlock said, his voice much too loud to be kind to John’s aching head.

“Mmrah,” John replied, hunkering down deeper into the light blue sheets of his bed.

Sherlock sighed before gripping the bottom of the blanket and sheet threateningly. Seeing John clench his hands into the top over his head, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t win a battle of strength. Good thing he was the smart one.

Sherlock jerked the bedclothes, not down but up, ducking under the end and crawling up the bed to John, a devious grin on his face. John curled up on his side, still more asleep than otherwise.

Climbing up the bed, Sherlock could make out the dark bruises left on John’s tan, toned body, one peaking very suggestively out from the band of his pajama bottoms, his bare chest wearing them proudly. Sherlock scowled, smelling the spit and alcohol clinging to his skin as well. Lying down with his head even with John’s, Sherlock frowned disapprovingly at his friend.

“If you hadn’t gone out drinking and copulating last night, you’d be perfectly happy to go out with me today.”

John jerked fully awake all at once, immediately coming to awareness, frozen in place under Sherlock’s gaze. His headache was crushing, but his nausea was completely due to his idea of Sherlock in his bed with him.

Not that he hadn’t imagined the brunet in this exact position a thousand times before. But now? Now, while he was covered in hickeys and stubble burn? Now that he’d slept with a man for the first time? John didn't know if Sherlock would be able to see all that on him, but if he could, John preferred that he didn't. He wasn’t ready to talk about that with Sherlock yet. Not with the boy he was very inappropriately in love with.

That boy, who was currently lying opposite him, with morning sunshine streaming in through his window, making the soft space between his sheets feel impossibly close and warm.

“It was that ridiculous Mathus party, wasn’t it?” Sherlock said, brow furrowed in frown, eyes looking John over in that cold and clinical way John loved and hated. “Of course he would invite you, he invites the whole rugby team every time he throws one. Pathetic.” Sherlock sniffed derisively. “I’m surprised you went. You don’t usually drink as much as you did last night.” Sherlock leaned in close and John held his breath. “Beer, and,” Sherlock paused, taking another breath through his nose. “Jack Daniels? Really, John?”

John should’ve sat up, flung back the blankets and put some distance between him and his best mate. And a bloody shirt on. But John couldn’t move, pinned in place by the way the muted light made his friend’s eyes glow a brilliant sea-slate grey.

“Who was she?” Sherlock asked, his disapproving frown growing deeper. John knew who Sherlock felt about sex and women and indulging in either. “You stink of her spit.” John just shrugged, letting go of the sheets with one hand to rub over his face as Sherlock continued to talk.

“Oh, God, wait, please tell me it wasn’t that horrid Sally Donovan. She and that idiot Anderson are on the rocks again, I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to climb all over you while you were compromised.” John barked a laugh, unable to help it, Sherlock’s very accurate deduction pulling a smile to his lips.

“She certainly tried,” John said, his voice rough from fading sleep but with a grin on his face.

A grin that slowly faded, however, as Sherlock went still next to him, eyes going from sparkling and friendly to cold and calculating.

John watched with growing nervousness as Sherlock slowly leaned in close, eyes on John’s lips as he closed the distance between he. John’s heart started pounding, so hard he knew Sherlock could hear it, could see the beat of it jumping in his neck. Or, he would see it, had his laser-like focus not been zeroed in on John’s mouth.

“What?” John asked, his nervous but oh so hopeful question washing over Sherlock’s face. To John’s utter surprise and rising terror, the genius jerked back violently, breaking John’s hold on the blanket and letting stark sunlight illuminate their faces. The two lay there for the space of a heartbeat, both staring in wide-eyed disbelief. Sherlock broke first, anger contorting his angel features as he leapt from the bed, the blanket’s tossed off in a flurry of movement.

“You were with a man?” Sherlock shot accusingly. John sat up as well, staring at his friend as Sherlock stared back, nostrils flaring.

“How did you,” John began, his tired, aching brain struggling to keep up. Sherlock looked so angry, feet planted on the floor and elbows bent like he was waiting to hit someone.

“Your breath,” Sherlock sneered. “Your whole body smells like spit but your _breath._ ” Sherlock took another step back from the bed, looking at John like he was the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen. “Your breath _reeks_ of _come_.”

John’s brain caught up all at once and he reached towards Sherlock, desperate to get the chance to explain himself.

“No, Sherlock, wait,” he entreated, shuffling towards the edge of the bed.

“Don’t tell me to wait,” Sherlock snarled, jerking away from John and starting to pace in the small confines of the room. “You were with another man last night,” he said again, furiously. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

John just stared, mouth agape. He didn't understand.

“Yes, but,” John said before he was cut off and his outstretch hand was slapped away from his irate genius.

“There are no ‘but’s, John!” Sherlock seethed, his pale face quickly flushing red. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” John shouted back defensively, getting to his feet and reaching again for his friend. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Why am I acting like this?” Sherlock asked incredulously, angry enough to deign to repeat something. “You had sex with a man! Sucked him off and let him come in your mouth.” Sherlock said it like it was the vilest thing in the world. Seeing the rage and disgust on his face, John wondered if it was.

“So?” he defended nonetheless, grasping at straws as he desperately tried to salvage a friendship that against all odds seemed to be deteriorating before his very eyes. “You’ve never cared about people being gay before,” he reminded him. “Why now?”

“Because it’s you, John!” Sherlock shouted, his voice cracking as fury raged. “You’re my friend, I trusted you! And now I find out you're sucking men off at parties? How could I possibly be okay with that?” Sherlock’s thin, bird-like chest was heaving with the force of his argument.

“You’re my friend, you should be okay with it,” John countered, ignoring the sudden dampness in his eyes as he was once again swatted away by the man he was so sure he loved.

“We’ve been together for years,” Sherlock accused. “And all this time you’ve been—” Sherlock bit off his sentence with a jerk of his head, looking away as if he couldn’t even stand the sight of his friend anymore.

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone pleading, begging for understanding. He searched his friend’s face but all he saw was anger and disgust. John stepped forward, his hand closing around Sherlock’s wrist.

The taller boy jerked back as if burned.

“Don’t you dare touch me, John Watson,” Sherlock said, his voice and face dangerous in their fury. “I can’t believe I ever trusted you.”

“Sherlock, I don’t understand,” John faltered, staring in mounting fear as Sherlock looked down on him. He felt like nothing, he felt worthless. In all the times he and Sherlock had rowed, John had never felt this low, this useless. It was the worst feeling he could possibly imagine. “You’ve always been my best mate,” John pleaded, desperate for some understanding, for some sympathy, for anything from the boy he’d grown up with. The man he’d grown to love.

He found none.

“All these years,” Sherlock sneered, his face losing its anger as it took on cold distain. “We’ve shared a bed. I’ve laid with my head in your lap. You’ve had your hands in my hair, on my face.” Sherlock looked like he’d be sick. He looked like he’d been violated and betrayed. He looked like he could vomit right there on the floor.

The sight made John swell with anger. He was the one losing his best friend, he should be the one feeling sick. And damn did he, but Sherlock? How dare he look like he was the one betrayed.

Bolstered with anger, John took another step forward, this time, in intimidation.

“Are you really so conceited that you think just because I like blokes that I like you? This isn’t about you,” John lied, but the anger on his face made it oh so convincing.

Sherlock certainly seemed to believe it, his face flushing red once again. His nostrils flared but he took a deep breath before he spoke again.

“You disgust me,” was all he said, but it felt like a physical blow to the stomach. John staggered back, all strength leaving him in one breath as he took in the hatred and repulsion in his best friend’s face.

With one final, lingering look of complete and utter revulsion, Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room.

John listened to him go, storming down the hall and slamming the front door.

He felt empty. He felt wooden and dejected and absolutely worthless.

He sunk back onto his bed and dropped his head into his hands.

Only then did he let the tears fall.

He sat there, hunched on his bed, tears on his face until his back ached from sobbing. He fell back, curling under the covers.

He couldn’t believe what had just happened. Sherlock, his best friend for as long as friends had mattered. Was gone. Hated him. Thought him disgusting and perverse and worthless. And Sherlock knew everything, so who was to say that John wasn’t? He certainly felt like it. He felt like the worst of the worst, like the spotted sidewalks covered in dirt and grim and smelling of filth. Sherlock didn't care about him anymore. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, he'd lost the best friend he'd ever had. For no other reason then the fact that he liked men, too. In the back of his head, John knew he shouldn't feel worthless, that Sherlock was in the wrong for treating him like this. But in his heart all that mattered was that he was alone, rejected by the one person he loved.

His head ached and his stomach churned. But more than anything, his heart and his eyes burned.

 

 

 

“Shite, John, what happened to you?” Greg Lestrade asked, pulling open his door and ushering the black and blue teenager in.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” John mumbled through a split lip. It was hard to tell with half his face swollen up, but Greg didn’t think he’d ever seen the kid more down.

Greg let the subject hang in the air for a tense moment longer, encouraging John to talk about it anyway. But the kid stayed quiet and looked fit to drop. Sighing, Greg closed the door and led the younger boy a couple steps to the kitchen.

“Fine, sit down. I’ll make us some tea and then we can talk about it,” Greg said, wiping a hand down his face and setting in for the long haul. John mumbled a complaint about not wanting to talk, but Greg fixed him with a stern look. “Hey, if you’re going to stay here, you’re going to tell me why.” John swallowed hard, and if possible, the boy looked even more miserable than when he’d walked in.

It was quiet as Greg made the tea, John silently soaking in misery. When Greg turned around and set a mug in front of the kid, he didn’t so much as look at it, eyes locked firmly on his hands in his lap. Greg sat opposite him, thinking back to the juvenile justice class he just finished. He’d done alright, but a future in child crimes was not for him. Nonetheless, he took a deep breath and jumped in.

“Alright, mate, what happened to you?”

“Sherlock and I had a row,” John confessed, his voice quiet and carefully controlled. Greg’s eyebrows shot skyward.

“That skinny little thing?” Greg asked, remembering very clearly having to scare him off once or twice when he followed him to class and made one to many comments and pissed off his professor. Kid would be a terror when he made it to Uni himself. “That little twig did that to your face?” he asked in disbelief.

“No,” John said, shaking his bruised head. “That was my Da.”

“Christ, John,” Greg started, sitting up straighter in his seat.

“No, it’s okay,” John assured him, meeting his eyes for the first time. “I provoked it, I knew what I was getting into.”

The look in John’s eyes, Greg had never seen anything so dead. The kid looked like he’d just had his heart ripped out. _Jesus_.

“Why’d he do it?” Greg asked, rising to get a bag of frozen anything from the fridge, getting his first good look at the damage done now that John was looking him in the face.

“He heard Sherlock while we were fighting. When he confronted me about it,” John hesitated. “I was asking for it.”

“Don’t say that,” Greg admonished gently, handing over the bag of frozen vegetables.

“No, I really was,” John insisted. “I literally asked him to hit me. I dared him to.”

“Well why’d you do that,” Greg asked incredulously.

“Wanted to feel something,” John admitted, his voice muffled by the bag on his face.

Greg sat heavily down into his chair. He’d never seen a kid so bad off. The clock on the wall said it was well past nine, he couldn’t send the kid back to his parents, not with the damage done to his face. At the hands of his father. _Goddamn._

“What happened?” Greg asked again, softer this time.

“I told Sherlock something,” John admitted after a couple beats of silence. “And he didn’t like it. We fought. My Da heard us, and when we talked about it, we fought.”

“What was it?” Greg asked gently. John looked at him in fear, eye wide, the other still hooded by swelling. John looked away again, unable to accept the kindness on Greg’s face. He knew he shouldn’t be taking advantage of his friend like this. But Greg was doing Uni classes and the only person John knew who had a place of their own without parents to answer to. John looked at the wall behind his friend and swallowed heavily.

"I can't tell you."

"And why not?"

“Greg,” he began hesitantly. “If you kick me out, I’ll have nowhere to go.” His voice sounded thick even to his own ears, and he couldn’t bear to see the pity staining his friend’s face.

“John,” he said seriously. John glanced at him. “There’s nothing you could say, short of murder, that I would kick you out over.” His face was open and honest and John allowed himself to believe that someone might actually care. Even after hearing the horrible truth it seemed he would have to confess.

Sitting up taller and braver than he felt, John looked just passed Greg’s ear and took a deep breath.

“I like blokes,” John said slowly, carefully keeping his voice from wobbling. “The same way I like girls.”

The confession hung in the air. It was quiet as Greg absorbed what he’d just heard.

“Oh, God,” Greg said tiredly, dropping his head into his hands. John dropped his head too, bracing himself for yet another rejection, another look of hate and disgust. “John.” Greg said. “John, look at me.”

John looked up, his expression controlled and blank. Greg looked at him so sadly.

“John, there is nothing wrong with that.”

John let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and it rushed out of him on a sob.

“John, God, really, tons of men like other men. I, myself, haven’t ever thought about that, but just because you do doesn’t make you wrong or bad or anything,” Greg assured him. The younger boy was looking at him with a look of pure and desperate disbelief.

Greg leaned back heavily in his chair, the weight of John’s distress hanging on him as well.

“Christ, John, I can’t believe you thought I’d kick you out over that,” Greg said grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“My Da did.”

“Well I sure as hell won’t.” Greg shook his head. “There is nothing wrong with being bi, John. Who the fuck told you any different?’

That seemed to be the wrong question, however, as the stoic teen’s careful expression fractured and his eyes brimmed with tears.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice cracked and a salty tear burned its way down an abraded cheek. “He told me I was disgusting.”

Greg watched, mouth agape in shock as John attempted to reign in his body-rocking sobs.

“Christ, no, John,” Greg said hurriedly, standing up and rounding the table, kneeling in front of the youth and pulling him into a tight hug, trying to be mindful of his bruised face while still trying to calm the boy’s sobs. “John there is nothing wrong with you,” he said earnestly. He held him tightly and said it again and again, willing the teen to believe it. When he’d finally settled and Greg made him a bed on the couch, Greg sat up for much of the night. Deciding exactly what he would do to that skinny little bastard next time he saw him.


	3. Chapter 3

Monday came way too soon, and suddenly John was trudging down school hallways, dutifully ignoring the questioning, interested and concerned gazes of his classmates as they took in his battered face, slow walk and dejected expression. His teacher barely muffled her gasp of surprise at seeing him. It wasn’t that John Watson had never been in fights before; he’d actually been in quite a few more than a student with his grades ought to have. What seemed to shock everyone was the amount of damage John had sustained. When John fought, he typically came out victorious. The bruises darkening the left side of his face implied fairly clearly that he hadn’t won this fight.

Taking his seat, John stared sullenly at the wood of his desk, resolutely not watching as Sherlock turned his charisma and charm on their teacher, begging for a new seat. She seemed unwilling to budge however, and Sherlock returned hesitantly to his desk.

John could smell him when he sat down, that expensive shampoo scent springing up from his curls. God he loved that smell. John’s heart hurt.

“You look terrible,” Sherlock said, for once being the one to state the obvious. He didn't know what else to say, a mass of emotion still swirling inside him.

“Cheers,” John said woodenly. “That’s how you look when you’re best friend in the world treats you like shit.”

“I can’t believe you think you can say that to me,” Sherlock said in his posh and arrogant voice. John never wanted to hit anyone more. But he knew if he turned to look at that gorgeous boy, he couldn’t hit him to save his life. Instead, he kept his head down, keeping the damaged side of his face turned away from the genius. Sherlock leaned forward to get a glimpse. John turned his face away, knowing it would drive the berk crazy.

“Who did it?” Sherlock asked, sighing impatiently, needing to know but unable to deduce without a good look.

“My Da,” John answered shortly. He heard the harsh intake of breath. He hunched his shoulders up around his ears. He didn't need pity from Sherlock Holmes. But God did he hope the bastard was drowning in guilt.

“Why?” his not-friend breathed.

“He heard what you said,” John said just short of accusing. He turned to face Sherlock, taking perverse joy in seeing Sherlock’s eyes widen in shock. “He didn't seem to like it any more than you did. He thought I was pretty disgusting, too.” If some self-hatred crept into his tone, well John was filled with it, some was bound to get out.

“John, I,” Sherlock began, but the blond dropped his head. He couldn’t listen to this. He pushed his chair back and grabbed his bag. He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t look at Sherlock, seemingly on the edge of apologizing, not something Sherlock Holmes did lightly or often. He couldn’t sit next to his best friend of nine years and just pretend that he hadn’t ripped his heart out, taken a bite and then spit it back into his face.

He couldn’t do this.

His teacher called after him, but John didn't stop. He left the classroom and was nearly free of the school grounds before he stopped next. He burst out of the back gym doors, chest heaving and vision blurring with barely checked emotions. He leaned heavily against the brick wall of the school, trying to collect himself, refusing to give into the swarming pit of hate and sadness and worthlessness. Anger was a much easier emotion to grab onto. It felt like the only things that could keep him afloat, before pain and repulsion flooded his mouth and nose and left him gasping again.

For the next ten or so minutes, John beat against the bricks, pounding his fists until blood splattered, bones snapped and he’d screamed himself hoarse. Only then, after leaning against the blood-speckled brick to catch his breath and wipe the tears from his face, did John turn and walk away, leaving the school and his bastard of a best friend behind him.

 

 

 

 

Greg came home to a very drunk minor, a bloodied and swollen hand clenched around a quarter drunken bottle of cheap arse vodka.

“What the fuck, John?” he yelled, tossing his hands up into the air. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school? And where did you get that? You’re not even old enough to drink!”

John’s head lolled towards him along the back of the couch, his eyes taking more than a couple seconds to truly focus on his friend’s angry face.

“Bought it from a guy,” he said, surprisingly clear sounding for how much of the bottle was gone. He took another swig, wincing as it went down.

“Christ, have you drunk all of that straight?” Greg asked in disbelief, a little begrudgingly impressed by the boy’s tolerance. The kid hummed his affirmation, bottle dangling from one busted hand. Greg sighed. “What’d you do to your hands?”

“Broke ‘em, I think,” John said, completely uncaring.

“What’d you hit?” Greg asked, crossing the room to inspect the boy’s hands. They were badly swollen and as far as Greg could tell, must’ve been incredibly painful. Some alcohol-thinned blood was still seeping from the massive abrasions to the knuckles.

“Brick wall,” the both said at the same time, Greg as a question, John in answer. John snorted unattractively.

“Huh,” he said, rolling his head to the side with a sloppy smile. “Maybe you won’t be as shit of a copper as Sherlock says you will.”

“Little twat,” Greg said under his breath. John laughed a sad, cold laugh. The older boy went to the fridge, retrieving the frozen veggies once again, this time for John’s hands. Poor kid, felt so empty inside he was hurting himself to feel something. Greg hoped his self-harm ended with abrasive walls and cheap vodka.

“I loved him, you know,” John said, stating back up at the ceiling.

“Who?” Greg asked, though he already knew.

“That little twat,” John said, taking another long pull. The alcohol dulled his head and left his throat raw and painful. A pain better to focus on than the one in his chest. “He was my best friend. I loved him before I even knew I liked men. It was always just him.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Greg said, wincing along with the lost and broken man drinking away his sorrows in his living room.

“Yeah,” John said softly to the ceiling. “Me too.”

“We need to get your hands checked out,” Greg said from the kitchen where he was scrounging about for something to feed the boy and himself.

“Later,” he grunted and Greg caught him flexing his fingers, eyes closed, teeth gritted, apparently relishing the pain.

“Stop messing with it, you’ll only make them worse.”

“I like it.”

“You like what?”

“That it hurts.”

Greg stared open mouthed at the boy for a moment, in shocked and stunned silence at the depth of the agony he was lost in.

“I’m making an appointment to get your hands looked at.”

John merely grunted.

Knowing there was little he could do before the boy drank himself into oblivion, Greg turned away and shut himself into his room. Sitting down on his bed, Greg dropped his head into his hands. He had to help his young friend. Before he did something to really hurt himself.

 

 

 

 

“Hey, shithead,” Greg called, a scowl on his face as he jogged to catch up with the lanky figure in a too-big dark coat. He didn’t turn around, but Greg could tell he was heard. Coming even with the boy, Greg grabbed his shoulder roughly, forcing him to face him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the boy sneered with derision. “We’re you talking to me?”

“As much as I wish I wasn’t, yes,” Greg snapped back, hand still pressing heavily against the younger man’s shoulder.

“If I’m such a hardship to converse with, why bother?” he said haughtily, attempting to pull from Lestrade’s grip. He didn’t budge.

“If I had it my way, I’d beat your face in,” Greg said through forced calm. “But I don’t think John would like that much.”

The kid’s pale and gaunt face paled further.

“John?” he asked, a flicker of vulnerability showing in his light grey eyes.

“Yeah, you know, the guy who used to be your best friend before you spit in his face and outed to his aggressively homophobic father? Yeah, him,” Greg said, aiming to hurt. He did, if the look of nauseous pain on the face in front of him meant anything.

Sherlock shifted awkwardly in front of him, swallowing hard against the prickle in the back of his eyes. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his ridiculous coat, but Greg thought he saw them shaking.

Greg sighed. That might’ve been harsh.

“Look, I don’t care why you said what you did. Your reasons don’t matter much to me, you did it and I’ll hate you for it.” The kid rolled his eyes. “But John deserves to know,” Greg continued, feeling slightly gratified at the now abashed look on the sassy prick’s face. He didn't say anything, but Greg knew he had his attention now. “He’s been living with me since you got him beat to shit and kicked out,” Greg couldn’t resist the last jab. “And I won’t insult your intelligence by giving you the address. Just come by, and talk to him.”

 The kid nodded slightly, no more than a jerk of his chin before he went to leave.

“One more thing,” Greg said. The boy didn't turn, but he stopped to listen. “Don’t you dare leave him worse off than he already is.” Greg’s voice was low and dangerous, the threat obvious and sincere. “I swear to God, Sherlock Holmes, if I find him crying into a bottle of gin with bloodied knuckles one more time, I’m going to kill you myself.”

The boy’s tall and proud shoulders had caved in throughout their conversation. Greg expected a fight, expected clever and biting retorts, but found none. And as the boy walked away (trudged, more like), he looked just as heartbroken as John did.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here, my friends and faithful readers, is the confrontation. I sincerely hope it lives up to your expectations. If it especially does or especially does not, leave me a comment and I'll: 1) thank you most graciously, or 2) try to make it up to you in the next chapter.

John had run out of alcohol late last night. Or early this morning, depending on how you looked at it. The hangover had been fierce, but now at five in the evening, John could see without squinting, walk without swaying and hear someone knock on the door without wincing.

At least, not until he opened the door and saw who it was.

“John,” his friend said with a nod of his head. The blond just stared at him, unable to decide which horrible emotion swirling inside him to identify with.

He looked for anger but found none. He just felt empty.

“Can I come in?” Sherlock asked, seemingly very uncomfortable as he fidgeted in the doorway.

“Why?” John asked, ashamed of the way his voice cracked.

Sherlock looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since that horrible morning. John met his eyes and saw agony there. Anguish like he felt, loss like he felt. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and dark and John had seen him sham before but you can’t fake depth like that.

“I want to talk,” Sherlock finally said, not breaking eye contact, falling headlong in the navy misery of his very best friend’s gaze.

John stepped aside.

Sherlock walked in and took in his surroundings. John had no idea what he was seeing, but he was sure it was way more than he had in the four days he’d been living here. The two boys sat at the table, and John was glad Greg was still at work.

“You weren’t at school today,” Sherlock said after several uncomfortable minutes of silence.

“That’s what you wanted to talk about?” John said numbly.

“No,” Sherlock grumbled, shoulders hunching and a frown furrowing his brow.

“Then what do you want to talk about?” John challenged, flexing his scabbed and cracked hands on the table before him. He wanted a reaction, out of Sherlock, out of himself. He was tired of numbed emptiness, he wanted to feel something, anything. Anger would be nice, but he’d settle for pain. Not the kind of pain numbing his chest, but the hot sting of pain jolting up his forearms from his cracked knuckles. The kind of pain that energized, not paralyzed. And he wanted Sherlock to feel it, too. He needed some sort of reaction, some sort of evidence for the suffering he’d been through these last couple days. Otherwise, it hardly seemed real.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. John started at how very unlike his friend that was. Sherlock very seldom said those three words. But whenever he did, John was quiet. He waited patiently as Sherlock put the words together in his head. They might not be friends anymore, but at least John still knew how to talk to him.

“I want to talk about,” Sherlock finally said after another couple beats of tense silence. “ _Why_.”

John looked at him with a snarl on his face. Anger was back, flaming in John’s empty chest.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he barked. Sherlock started and looked up at John, expression wary as he observed a reaction he had not anticipated. His stupid face only served to fuel John’s rising fury. “You want to know _why_ I like men?” he growled, leaning forward over the table, pushing his broken hands against the tabletop. “Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that a hundred times?  Especially recently.” Heat filled John’s face as rage was easy to stoke. And, God, did it burn.

“Not that,” Sherlock shot back, as he too hid behind anger. It was easier there.

“Then what, Sherlock?” John asked, voice rising. “Why what?”

“Why _him_?” Sherlock shouted, the volume and hurt in the question shocking them both.

“What?” John glared at his friend, not even sure if he could still call him that.

“Why him?” Sherlock repeated with feeling. “Why on earth did you choose _him_?” His cheeks had flushed with color and his eyes were flashing with emotions he didn't typically display.

“Does it matter?” John asked, genuinely confused, but refusing to give up his front of anger. He knew what lay just beneath, pain and longing. For a friendship lost and a love he’d never have. Anger was so much easier. He flexed his hands again.

“How can you ask me that?” Sherlock snapped, still bolstering with ire. He swept out of his chair and began pacing the small confines of the kitchen. “Of course it matters! It’s the only thing that matters!”

“But, why?” John asked, more than slightly baffled.

“You sucked his cock!” Sherlock shouted, pale, fragile hands flung high over his head. “You’ve insisted you were straight all your fucking life, and all the sudden you’re on your knees for some stranger? Why him? What was it about him?” Sherlock was looking at him with searching eyes, but John felt as though he had nothing to say. Instead he was left sputtering with pique.

“Just think, John!” Sherlock barked again. “We’ve been best friends for years. We sleep together, we take care of each other, we cuddle, for God’s sake!” John’s eyes widened in surprise at hearing Sherlock acknowledge all the peculiarities of their relationship. He had always assumed that Sherlock just didn't realize it was strange. But apparently he did, and was now taking affront to it all.

“You never seemed to mind,” John said defensively. “It’s not like I was taking advantage of you.”

“No!” Sherlock bellowed, sounding as agonized as John felt. “That’s not what this is about!” He buried his hands in inky curls and tugged in frustration. “Why can’t you understand what I’m saying? It’s not about you being gay,”

“Bi,” John corrected, arms crossed over his chest.

“It doesn’t matter!” Sherlock’s face was red and his chest was heaving as he paced dangerously quickly. “It matters that you like men _and_ _you chose him_!”

“Why does that matter at all?” John asked, pushing back in his chair and running his hands down his face exhaustedly.

“Because you suddenly felt a bisexual itch and you went out to find someone else to scratch it for you. A total stranger!” Sherlock’s pacing came to an abrupt end as he stopped in front of the table, slamming his palms down on it and leaning into John’s space.

“So?” John shouted, standing up to face Sherlock head-on. “Why does it matter who he was? Why do you give a fuck about who I fucked?!”

“ _Because it wasn’t me!_ ” Sherlock screamed at him, face red and creased in pain and fury.

The world froze for a moment as Sherlock’s words washed over him. Anger was lost in an instant as shock crashed through the boy and stole his breath and thought.

Sherlock’s face went through a quick metamorphosis as well, going from furious to fearful and finally landing on uncertainty.

It was John who finally broke the tense, tentative silence.

“What did you just say?” John asked in breathless disbelief.

“You know I hate repeating myself,” Sherlock mumbled, but his baritone voice had lost all its passion and outrage. Instead, his face was red with an embarrassed blush and his quicksilver eyes were on the floor before him.

John paused for a moment, processing what he had just heard and what he was about to do.

Before he could stop himself or think twice, John grabbed two thick handfuls of Sherlock shirt and dragged him forward over the table into a bruising kiss.

The genius’ eyes blew wide and he was frozen in the kiss, feeling the pressure of John’s spilt and scabbed lip against his own. It was over before Sherlock had time to respond, John pulling back and releasing his grip on his white shirt.

“Now,” John said, sitting down, the picture of calm maturity. “Would you like to tell me—slowly and quietly please, I’ve got a splitting headache— exactly why you were so terrible to me the other morning.”

It took Sherlock a couple moments to realize he was still standing, lips parted, staring blindly at the spot where John used to be. It was quiet for a moment as Sherlock’s brain came back online, having been completely shut down at the feeling of John’s lips against his, his hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him near, pressing against him. Sherlock took a dangerously unsteady breath, looking at John where he sat in his chair.

“You just kissed me,” Sherlock whispered, stating the obvious in a way he would later deny doing.

“Yes, I did,” John said, his voice pinching slightly with an uncertainty that didn't show on his face. “And I can promise you that I won’t do it again until I get an explanation.”

 Coming to himself, he dropped gracelessly into his seat, staring at John hesitantly. But his stalwart friend was simply sitting there, waiting patiently for a justification. One Sherlock supposed he was owed..

“I felt betrayed,” Sherlock began slowly, staring at John with wide eyes, still not completely believing what had just happened. John had kissed him. John had drug him by the shirt and kissed him. And now he was just sitting there like it hadn’t even happened. Sherlock looked down at his chest, seeing several small specks of blood from John’s swollen hands, physical proof that Sherlock hadn’t hallucinated it.

John’s jaw jutted out at his response, either completely unaware of or completely ignoring the mental turmoil swirling under inky curls.

“ _You_ felt betrayed?” he asked. “I was the one who lost my best friend.” He looked away. Sherlock frowned.

“You never lost me,” he said frowning. “Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock shook his head. They would always be friends, Sherlock would never not want John.

It was quiet for a moment as Sherlock studied his nails and John tried to get a grip on his throat so he could force out his next sentence

 “You told me I was _disgusting_ ,” John whispered, watering eyes fixed on the wall.

Sherlock looked at him in shock, eyes wide as they stared at the side of John’s face, able to see enough to deduce the agony etched there.

“John,” Sherlock said despairingly. John didn't look at him as a tear broke free and rolled salty down his bruised cheek. “John, stop.” Sherlock insisted, going slightly frantic at the sight of his friend miserable. The idea that he had left him like this for days, misconstrued and self-hating thoughts in his head, made Sherlock feel sick. But he had hurt too.

“John, I thought you’d been lying to me. Since as early as twelve you were insisting you were heterosexual. But when you…” Sherlock stuttered, unable to say the act he so loathed for causing this much drama. He pulled in on himself as he hunched in his chair. “When you were _with_ another man, I thought that you’d been lying. All these years we’ve been best friends, I felt like you were mine, and I thought the only reason we weren’t… _more_ was because you’re straight. But if you're not straight, then why aren’t we more?” Sherlock paused again, looking down at his hands, summoning strength for the question he’d been trying to solve for days now.  “If you liked boys, well, why didn't you like me?”

Daring a look back up to his friend, Sherlock saw dark cobalt eyes staring back at him.

 John swallowed heavily, his cut and bruised hand coming up to rub against his eyes.

“So you’re telling me,” he said slowly, praying to God he was hearing this right. Then again, he didn’t have much to lose. “You were angry with me, disgusted with me, sick at the sight of me, because I’d been with you all these years and then I’d slept with someone else? A guy who wasn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you have been?” Sherlock asked quietly, arms crossed over his chest as he hunched down in his seat, looking to all the world like he was no more than three feet tall. “If all the sudden I decided I liked men, or women even, if I decided I liked _people_ and went out and found a sexual partner, would you not have felt a little betrayed that I’d never even looked twice at you?”

“So this is about being admired? Being lusted after? Is that what you’re saying to me?”

“No, this is about being wanted _back.”_  Sherlock insisted, looking at John from under his thick fringe of curls. “This is about you wanting me as much as I wanted you.”

The two sat in silence, studying each other. John flexed his hands on the table. Sherlock chewed his lip, gathering courage for what he wanted to say next.

“I think you do,” he said at length, timid as a mouse and so very unlike himself. All of this was. “Or, at least, you did. Like me like I liked you. You just didn’t know it.”

“I knew it,” John added just as quietly. “I didn’t think you felt the same.”

Sherlock gave him a scornful look, but it was softened by apprehension and a slight smile.

“You see, but you don’t observe,” He said it more like stating evidence than confessing sentiment, but John heard it for what it was.

He stood from his chair. Sherlock did the same, with trepidation.

Slowly, eyes locked and not a word spoken, they walked to the end of the small square table, stopping with only a foot of space separating them.

Breath caught and hands shook as they stared at each other. At the man the other knew best in this world; young and temperamental but true friends.

John raised one bruised and shaking hand, hesitating with it hanging in the air, before gently sinking into the curls behind his friend’s ear.

Sherlock shuddered delicately, lids drooping slightly as a familiar, callused and scabbed hand carded through his hair.

“Sherlock,” John breathed his name against his face and neither boy could help leaning in.

Lips met in a gentle and scared kiss, both unsure but, God, so hopeful.

The broke apart after mere seconds, John turning his face away with tightly shut eyes. Sherlock’s cool, pale hands came up to tentatively cup his neck, unwilling to give away the quiet intimacy of the moment. The type Sherlock hadn’t known before.

“John?” came the hesitant beckoned, slight pressure on his neck to turn his face back to Sherlock’s. His eyes stayed closed however, brow furrowed. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Sherlock entreated. “I can’t tell, you have to tell me.” Sherlock’s heart was racing in his chest. He was so close, so close to John, to keeping John, to earning him back. He needed John with him. With him exactly like this.

“I love you,” John whispered, hiding his face in the palm of his closest friends hand. “So much.”

Sherlock breathed a ragged sigh of relief, his arm coming up to loop around the shorter boy’s neck. He pulled him close, burrowing his face into John’s hair and breathing deeply.

“John, I love you, too,” he whispered against him and John’s arms circled around him and clamped tightly over his back, pulling him close and holding him so tightly he could hardly breathe. He didn’t need to, though, breathing was boring.

“Sherlock, I can’t do that again,” John said, his voice muffled against Sherlock’s shoulder but still choked and pained sounding. “The way you looked at me, the way I felt,” John broke off with a full-body shudder and Sherlock felt the cloth of his shirt go damp. “I can’t ever do that again,” he whimpered.

Sherlock’s heart clenched and he pushed his face harder against John’s neck, shaking with him, fighting back tears of his own. He felt wretched. The betrayal he’d felt in the last four days paling in comparison to the depth of the suffering he had wrought on his beloved John, his faithful John.

“I’m sorry, John, I'm so, so sorry,” Sherlock pressed his apology to the salty skin of John’s neck.

“I just can’t,” John said again, pulling back to look into his friend’s face. His navy eyes were dark and wide, looking exactly like a man dropped in the woods with no way out. It broke Sherlock’s heart.

“John, I promise you, I will never knowingly make you feel like that again,” He said solemnly. “You are my best and only friend, and while I may not always treat you as such, you are precious to me. I will endevour to never hurt you again.”

John hiccupped one last sigh of relief before his bruised lips were crushing against Sherlock’s, both boys holding on for dear life.


	5. Chapter 5

Kissing had never been something Sherlock Holmes though he would enjoy. It all seemed rather wet and awkward to him.

But not the way John Watson did it.

John Watson kissed the same way Sherlock deduced or experimented, with diligence, attention and brilliance.

His hands roamed the taller boy’s back and shoulders, sliding forward over his ribs, up to cup his scapulae before trailing down the grove of his spinal cord.

Even with a cut and slightly swelling lip, John was precise and well-practiced in his movements, drawing Sherlock in and nibbling at his mouth. His tongue was smooth and sure as it stroked into the brunet’s mouth, making him moan around it.

It was all Sherlock could do to hold on for the ride, his hands cupping the sides of John’s neck, describing the planes his face, tangling in his short hair. John pressed against him, pushing him backwards a step until he was pinned between his body and the table. John pressed closer still, their bodies aligning so perfectly, it was like two pieces of the same puzzle, finally lodging together.

Of all the puzzles Sherlock had solved, this was by far the most rewarding.

John’s hips ground against Sherlock’s, informing him with an electric jolt of the tightness in his own trousers, as well as the answering hardness in John’s. He moaned into his mouth and the blond rolled them together again. Sherlock’s hips clumsily bucked forward, chasing the hot pressure, arching for more, hands spasming against John’s biceps as his focus was stolen from the kiss and sent spiraling down to his groin.

Breath was coming short and Sherlock was half out of his mind. When John’s broad hand slipped down to cup his bum, fingers digging in as he pulled him harder against the ache in his jeans, autonomic nerves kicked in and he bucked into the contact, teeth snapping shut on John’s lip.

“Ow, fuck,” John cursed, drawing back and taking his hand and hips with him, pressing his thumb to his freshly bleeding lip.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, conflicted with his desire not to hurt John and his desire to lick the blood from his mouth. His arse hurt delicately where John’s hands had gripped it. Sherlock didn't know if it was a good or bad feeling.

“’S okay,” John assured, pink tongue peeking out to slide over his opened scab. Sherlock watched its progress, mesmerized.

“Come home with me,” He blurted out, shocking even himself with the desperation in the plea.

“Huh?” John asked dully, fingers now still where they had been prodding at his lip.

“Come home with me,” Sherlock repeated, feeling more assured the second time saying it. “You’ve slept over plenty of times before, and my mum can look at your hands and help with your father and everything. You can stop sleeping on the couch and start sleeping with me.”

They were both silent for a moment, and then the end of that sentence caught up with the genius who was talking faster than he was thinking and he immediately flushed scarlet, thoughts on what innocent grinding might very well be expected to turn into.

“You know what I meant,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet as John chuckled at him.

“Yes, I know what you mean, you berk,” he said, truly smiling for what felt like the first time in days. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back. He’d forgotten how much he relied on seeing that smile.

“So you’ll come stay with me?”

“Until I get all this figured out, yeah, I like that plan.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and he frowned as panic crept into the back of his head.

“Figure what out, exactly?’ he asked, eyes frantically searching his friend’s face.

“Not you,” John assured him hurriedly, stepping close into the genius’ space. “No, love, I’m sure about you,” he promised, his clean hand tracing up his upper arm to cup the nape of his neck. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, dropping his head to rest against John’s crown. “Family stuff, Sherlock,” John clarified. “That’s all that still needs working out. I’m sure about you.”

Sherlock melted against him, gentle hands tipping his blond head up to a careful kiss. Careful turned into hungry and when the pulled apart to breath, John’s tongue snaked out to lick his blood from his new boyfriend’s lips.

“Come home with me,” Sherlock repeated for the third time, eyes closed, lips brushing lips. He wasn’t sure how he felt about hands on his arse or a tongue on his skin or a hard cock pressed against him. He knew he liked it so far, but he was hesitant about going further. But one thing he knew for absolute certain was that John was worth figuring it out. John nodded against him, hands coming up to cup Sherlock’s face as he kissed him again.

His thumbs brushed Sherlock’s perfect cheekbones as his tongue flicked into his mouth. The taller boy’s hands settled against his hips, a little hesitantly but growing in assurance as John kissed him deeper.

John couldn’t get over how _right_ it felt, kissing Sherlock. Tilting his head up into that smart and sharp pout, making that brilliant voice go breathy against his mouth and those graceful hands stutter and shake over his skin. Parting to look into glowing blue eyes, tangling his hands in springy dark curls. John breathed in the smell of him, humming with how right it all felt. He loved this man. And was loved in return, in the most impossible way possible. John had in his hands and between his teeth a love he thought he’d never achieve.

He hummed in contentment, smiling against Sherlock’s lips. His hands dropped from Sherlock’s cheeks to brush over his narrow shoulders.

“What?” Sherlock asked, sliding his lips over to John’s cheek when it was clear he was no longer being kissed. He pressed his cheek against John’s before dropping his face to his shoulder, breathing in the beautiful smell of John.

“I’m just happy,” John admitted, open and honest in a way that bewildered Sherlock. “I’m more happy right now than I ever thought I’d be.”

The two boy pulled apart, only far enough to look into each other’s eyes and grin stupidly at the other. Then they heard the lock click in the door.

“Oh,” Greg said, surprise clear on his face. “Well I see you’ve made up, then.”

Sherlock made to step away, but John laced his fingers behind his back and kept him close.

“Yeah, we have,” John said, leaning in to place one last chaste kiss on his new boyfriend’s lips before pulling away and turning to his friend. “Greg, thank you for letting me stay here these past couple days. Really, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

Greg eyed John cautiously, his gaze flickering untrustingly to Sherlock. “You say that like you’re leaving,” Greg said, more question than statement.

“I’m going to stay with Sherlock until I get the rest of all this,” he gestured around broadly, “figured out.”

“You think that’s smart?” Greg asked, giving Sherlock a wary look.

“Yeah, Greg, its fine,” John assured, reaching over and twining his fingers with the brunet’s. Sherlock squeezed his hand, pressing unpleasantly on John’s injured knuckles, causing the boy to flinch. “Ow, that hurt.”

Greg studied the two men carefully. John, his poor, wounded young friend, finally registering the pain in his broken hands as negative, but still grinning like a fool at the boy who had caused him even greater pain to begin with. Looking at the teen who before had only appeared sullen and disdainful was now brimming with life and warmth, eyes only for the stalwart man by his side. The way Sherlock looked at John, with awe and frantic hope, Greg would’ve killed for someone to look at him like that.

Greg looked back to John, seeing him grin and stroke his swollen hand up a delicately pale forearm. Greg sighed.

“Alright, kid, go on and play house for a little bit.” The affronted expression on Sherlock’s face drew a rueful grin to Greg’s. “Just get your hands looked at, for Christ’s sakes.”

“Thank you, Greg,” John said earnestly, crossing the kitchen to embrace his older friend. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Yeah, yeah, go on then,” Greg said, patting him affectionately on the back before steering him back towards the living room, and thusly, his boyfriend. “Just give me my damn couch back.”

John smiled over his shoulder at Greg before catching Sherlock’s hand and dragging him from the room.

“Come on, Lock,” he said excitedly. “Take me home.”


End file.
